


The Weight of Memories

by MermaidMarie



Series: Timeline 9 [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Timeline 9
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23450041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidMarie/pseuds/MermaidMarie
Summary: In which Eliot and Quentin encounter some unforseen complications.(Following the events of What You Know Now)
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Timeline 9 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1606006
Comments: 18
Kudos: 180





	1. Scattered

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the summary is vague, what do you want from me?  
> (Thank you to eliotapologist on Tumblr for the prompt that got this started)

_King Eliot, the Brave._

He’d never get used to the name. He’d never get used to the fact that people heard it and trusted that it was true. He’d never get used to the way the crown felt on his head.

It was, truly, a lot to take in, so he was pretty glad that he was more or less allowed to dip out when he wanted to.

Margo, Julia, and Penny had everything more than under control and if Eliot was being honest, being a king had never been a particular dream of his. He’d mostly just hoped to be numb and unreachable—his dream for quite some time was to build layers of armor until he could conceal anything too raw, until people only knew the smoke and mirrors.

Well. This was better.

There were worse things than being seen. There were worse things than being known, it turned out.

He was getting used to the idea that he didn’t have to hide every part of himself that he hadn’t constructed. It was a process, remembering that he was allowed to be himself without mask or condition.

It was easier, in any case, when he was back in New York with Q. Fillory was quite an experience, and Eliot was never sure quite how much he liked being there. Watching Margo in her element was, at least, always fun, but Eliot didn’t feel the same connection to that place and his role there that Margo did. He found he wasn’t a fan of the way the opium in the air felt, nor was he particularly fond of the endless meetings. He even tired of the feasts sometimes.

The portal home was kept in his chambers in the castle. He was the one that got the most use out of it after all. (He did think of it as the portal _home,_ rather than a way to visit Earth. Maybe Margo didn’t view it the same way he did.)

It had been a tiring time in Whitespire that day—

Margo was in talks with the neighboring kingdoms about trade deals and treaties, and Eliot couldn’t help but feel himself falling asleep in the meetings.

When they broke for lunch, Margo just rolled her eyes at him.

 _Fine, fine,_ she’d said, _go see your boyfriend._

He didn’t need to be told twice. He kissed her cheek and headed out.

When he got through the portal, the apartment was—

Well, it was a mess. A bizarre mess. Open books scattered everywhere. What looked like about ten different half-started spells. Bowls, strange ingredients, scribbled notes…

Quentin was sitting on the floor in the middle of it, hunched over a book and chewing on his thumbnail with urgency. Eliot waited for a few moments, but Quentin was fully engrossed. He hadn’t noticed the portal open. 

“I don’t know if I want to know the answer, but what are you doing?” Eliot said carefully.

Quentin jumped, startled, knocking over a stack of books that had been precariously balanced next to him.

He looked up and his face broke out in a bright, open smile. Eliot’s heart beat faster, the traitor. He wondered if there would ever come a point where Quentin’s smile didn’t make him feel off balance.

God. He never would have thought he’d be capable of falling this hard for anyone.

Learning that magic was real had been less surprising than this.

“Eliot,” Quentin said, his voice warm and full of affection. He got to his feet fast, brushing his legs off.

“Hey there,” Eliot replied. _I love you,_ he thought, automatically. Quentin had said the words, but he hadn’t yet. Quentin, at least, didn’t seem inclined to try and rush him.

Quentin always greeted him like it had been weeks—he’d visited _yesterday,_ and Quentin rushed over to him to hug him tightly and drag him down into a sudden and breathtaking kiss. Eliot got pretty caught up in it all, too, though.

He _had_ visited yesterday, but Quentin greeting him with no shame about how obvious his feelings were made his chest feel tighter. He found that he really had missed Q, too, even though it had only been a day. No matter how much time they spent together, Eliot found that it never really felt like enough. 

Eliot pulled away after he was completely out of breath, stroking back Quentin’s hair. “Mm. I’m happy to see you, too.”

“What are you doing back?” Quentin asked. “Miss the WiFi already?”

Eliot smiled, stroking his fingers lightly along Quentin’s jawline. “Among other things.”

“Oh, really? Like what?” Quentin said, smirking slightly.

Eliot rolled his eyes, pushing Quentin away. “Shut up.”

Q laughed, gazing at Eliot with open fondness.

“ _Any_ way. About the state of this place. I’m still not completely sure how much I want an answer to this—” Eliot looked around the room, gaze raking over all the scattered objects. “But _what_ are you doing?”

“Oh, right!” Quentin said, his eyes widening. “So, um. The—like, okay, the thing about, um, about Fillory—or, I guess, one of the things—is well, uh…”

As Quentin started to ramble, his hands moving, a slightly frantic, buzzing energy to him, Eliot had a strange thought in the back of his mind—

He had an odd moment of relief, thinking that Q was getting back to his old self again.

Eliot blinked rapidly, suddenly feeling off-kilter. He couldn’t quite focus on what Quentin was going on about.

“Whoa, hey,” Quentin said when he looked back over at Eliot. “You seem—um. Are you okay?”

Eliot shut his eyes a moment. “I think I just need to sit down.”

“Right, uh—right.”

Quentin cleared the stuff off the couch, more or less dumping it all unceremoniously to the floor. Eliot absently hoped there was nothing important in that pile as he took a seat, still shaky. Quentin perched on the armrest next to him, studying his face.

Eliot took a few deep breaths, trying to gather himself.

“You’re staring,” he said after a few moments.

“You looked like you were gonna faint,” Quentin replied. He tentatively reached forward before stopping himself, drawing his hand back to his chest. “Um.”

“I’m fine.”

“El.”

“I think. I think I’m fine.”

Quentin was leaning forward, studying his face. “Do you, like. Do you need water? I could get you water.”

“Maybe?” Eliot brought his hand up to his temple, pressing slightly. “It couldn’t hurt.”

Quentin nodded, taking a second to squeeze Eliot’s arm before heading to the kitchen. As he disappeared through the door, Eliot felt a sharp pain in his head.

An image came to mind, oddly bright, vivid colors, blurred at the edges—

Quentin, smiling nervously, talking fast, an open book in front of him, his gaze darting around—his hands pushing his hair back, his brow furrowed in concentration—

There was something strange about the image, something off, but Eliot couldn’t—

Quentin returned, glass of water in hand, going back to his perch on the arm of the couch.

Eliot drank, hoping for clarity, but the water didn’t seem to be magically solving his problems.

“Better? Or…” Quentin said apprehensively.

“Mm. Jury’s still out.” Eliot tapped his fingers against the glass, feeling uneasy.

“Uh, well, maybe I could, um…” Quentin started. He sounded uncertain.

Eliot shook his head, putting the glass down. “How about you just tell me what you’re doing? What is all this?”

Quentin looked at him, brow furrowed in concern. “Um, you sure, because—”

“I just need to catch my breath and we both know I wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgewise, so.” Eliot gestured for him to go on.

“Right. Uh. Okay.” Quentin’s gaze flicked around the room like he was trying to figure out where to start. “So, um. The thing—the thing about Fillory, and uh, about traveling across worlds like that in general is, um. Time can get weird? Like, time doesn’t necessarily pass in the same way, so…”

Quentin got up from the couch, rearranging some of the books in a way that looked completely arbitrary to Eliot.

“I’m reading up on time magic,” Quentin said. “I wanted to, um. I want to try to figure out if I can stabilize the portal—y’know, the clock—so that it, uh, so there aren’t any issues with the timing of things. I wanna make sure we’re like—that time is passing the same for us, even as we’re going back and forth.”

Eliot looked around the room. It looked like Quentin was trying to learn everything about time magic all at once. “We haven’t had any issues with that yet.”

“But we _could,_ is the thing.” Quentin ran a hand through his hair, seeming like he was having difficulty keeping still. “I mean, like—god, can you imagine how much it would fucking suck if you were just in Fillory for, like, a week and a year passed here?”

“We could see about asking Martin about this.”

Quentin shook his head. “Martin is the god of Fillory—the time discrepancies between the worlds is a little out of his jurisdiction.”

“Hm.” Eliot glanced at Quentin wryly. “Well, it certainly looks like you have everything under control.”

“God, shut up,” Quentin replied, frowning at the mess. “It’s—look, stabilizing the portal is like. Not gonna be simple.”

Eliot cleared his throat, looking at the ground. He’d been turning over an idea in his mind for a little while, though he’d never gotten a good enough reason to bring it up, but now… “You know, um. I could… I could stick around a while and see if I could help.”

There was a beat of silence and Eliot tapped his fingers lightly against his leg.

He didn’t know what he was so nervous about.

“Yeah?” Quentin said, sounding tentatively hopeful.

Eliot glanced up, a slight smile. “Might as well, right? Margo’s got Fillory more than under control. Plus, Julia and Penny are plenty help when she needs it.”

The thing was that after everything, after all they’d been dealing with, after all they’d been through…

Eliot was realizing that he and Quentin never really got the chance to breathe. To settle in with one another. He didn’t really know, in truth, what they were like together. Even the idea of staying here, in Quentin’s apartment, made Eliot feel anxious.

Between the timeline bullshit and the Beast, Eliot realized that he and Quentin hadn’t been able to do much beyond those tense, frustrating moments between crises where he felt like there would never be any hope for them.

And now…

Well. Now there was hope. There was a promise that there was a _chance_ for them.

Eliot had been spending most of his time in Fillory, though he came back to New York often. It was possible—though he wasn’t about to admit it—that he’d been avoiding this part, just a little.

The part where they find out who they are when there’s no monster to fight. The part where they find out who they are when nothing is stopping them.

There was something easier, somehow, about all this when he’d thought there was an insurmountable end point to it all. It was simpler to treat the thing between them like an inevitable tragedy than it was to imagine what else they could be together.

Not to mention that Eliot had thought about the idea of staying more than once, having to drag his feet as he returned to Fillory. He loved Quentin—really, _really_ loved him, and more than anything, he just wanted to exist with him.

There was a long enough pause that Eliot second guessed himself.

“I mean—really, only if you want the help,” he said, trying for an airy tone. “I’d hate to impose.”

Slightly infuriatingly, Quentin actually looked a little amused at that. “I’d love the help,” he said, his smile coming through in his tone. “I’d love the company, too.”

For all his restless energy, Quentin did seem relatively calm, Eliot noted. Like the anxiety that was usually right on the surface had largely evaporated. This new life looked good on him, all bright eyes and easy smiles.

He seemed happy.

Another image came to Eliot, vivid and golden—

Quentin, stretched out on a quilt in the sunlight, sleeping soundly—a pang of stubborn fondness in his own chest as he felt himself gazing for a little longer than he felt like he should—a yearning to tuck Q's hair back, an understanding that he shouldn’t do that, that he shouldn’t _want_ that—

Eliot blinked, the image fading away as fast as it appeared.

Quentin was looking at him, smile faded slightly as he studied Eliot’s face.

Reaching for some reassurance that he was okay, that Q should brush off the worry that was edging into his expression, Eliot started to try to say something, but he cut off wincing when a splitting headache came on suddenly again.

“Shit,” Quentin said, moving towards him. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, I’m fine,” Eliot replied, slightly breathless, which he was sure made it sound all the more convincing.

Quentin brought a hand up to his face, cupping his cheek gently as he looked into his eyes. “Maybe you should stay so we can figure out what’s going on with you, too,” Quentin suggested softly.

“That doesn’t seem like the worst idea,” Eliot admitted.


	2. When It Starts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, what's up, I'm back

It took maybe five minutes after sending the rabbit for Margo to come through the clock, in a long, red Fillorian gown, arms crossed over her chest. She slammed the grandfather clock door behind her, which made Eliot wince a little bit. It _was_ an antique—taking out her frustration on it seemed a tad unnecessary.

“Well, hello to you too,” he greeted.

“What’s this about you _staying?”_ she snapped.

“No pleasantries, I see,” Eliot murmured.

“Fuck off, you send a rabbit over that just says ‘ _Staying here, love Eliot’_ and you want me to be more pleasant?” Margo said, glaring at him. “Nope, you gotta explain yourself.”

Quentin was hovering near the doorway, where he’d just come in with some more books in his arms. He took a slow step backwards. “Um, maybe I should just…” he said slowly.

Margo pointed an accusatory finger. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “You’re in this conversation too, Coldwater.”

“Uh…” He looked over at Eliot, an uncertain expression on his face.

“Weren’t _you_ supposed to be our royal advisor or what-the-fuck-ever?” She snapped her gaze from Quentin to Eliot. “And _you’re_ a king, you can’t just—” She cut off gesturing widely.

“I’m not a leader there the way _you_ are—or the way Julia is, or even the way Penny is.” Eliot sighed, leaning forward a little in his seat. He wanted to explain it to her in a way she’d understand—Fillory just didn’t mean to him what it meant to her, and he didn’t just want to play sidekick to her for the rest of his life.

He liked Fillory. It had been a beautiful adventure for all of them, rescuing it from monsters and gods, finding a whole world for Martin. But Fillory—it was just never going to be his home. Staying there for the rest of his life, trying to mold himself to it—

Well. It wasn’t what he wanted.

“As your High King—” Margo said, summoning familiar authority into her tone.

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Not here, you’re not,” he said. “I _know_ you’re not about to play that card.”

Margo crossed her arms, the shell cracking a little to reveal the hurt. She looked younger that way. “I just don’t see why we should live on different _worlds,”_ she said, her voice quieter. “I’m gonna be honest, I kind of hate that idea.”

Eliot felt himself soften with sympathy. “Oh, Bambi,” he said, standing and going over to her to put an arm over her shoulders. “I _promise_ we’ll still see each other all the time. Our love transcends the different realms.”

She huffed a little, leaning away from him. But he could feel the understanding settling over her, despite her stubbornness.

“It’s okay,” he told her, smiling softly. “This isn’t the end of anything.”

“ _Feels_ like it is,” she replied.

“I am so proud of who you’ve become, Bambi,” Eliot said. “And I am _so_ happy for you. We won’t lose each other.”

Her shoulders finally relaxed, but she shot him a glare. “Sending a rabbit? _Really?”_

Eliot laughed. “Okay, I _am_ sorry about that. It’s possible I should’ve elaborated more.”

“You think?”

“In my defense, you’re _very_ scary,” Eliot replied, keeping his tone serious. 

Margo rolled her eyes. “Flattery won’t get you off the hook.”

“See? Positively _terrifying.”_

Margo leaned away from him to shoot Quentin a glare. “You _better_ visit all the time.”

Eliot glanced at Quentin, amused. Q’s eyes were wide and he shifted back towards the doorway.

“Yeah. All the time, Margo. Promise,” he said, his tone a little strained. He forced a smile.

“I am not above kidnapping,” Margo said gravely.

Quentin just let out a small, slightly nervous laugh. Eliot kissed Margo on the forehead.

Margo didn’t stick around much longer—she’d left mid-meeting after getting the rabbit. She stayed long enough to shoot some more threats and whine a little, and then she was off. Eliot really did adore her so much.

He had to take a slightly mushy moment to gaze at the clock with fond pride after Margo left.

“She’s something in every timeline,” Quentin said with similar affection.

“I don’t doubt it,” Eliot replied.

Quentin nudged Eliot’s arm. “Okay. So. What’s going on? What’s wrong, are your headaches, like, connected to something, or—just. Where do we start? What’s, like, _happening?”_

Eliot shot him an amused glance. “Pick one question to start, Coldwater.”

He headed back to the couch, taking a seat. Quentin followed closely, chewing at his lower lip. He sat down next to Eliot, tucking a leg into his chest.

“Are you okay?” was the question Quentin went with.

Eliot smiled and nodded, a soft burst of affection for Quentin in his chest.

He started to answer, when—

Eliot got the splitting pain in his head again. He winced, getting the flash of an image, until it turned into—

_Quentin coming home with a cloth bag full of food from the market nearby, as Eliot stretched out in the sun, peeking over through one eye. Quentin looked so at peace—older, too. They really were middle aged now, weren’t they? Their son all grown and headed off, their lives relaxed into this soft, easy familiarity._

_It was all so achingly domestic. They were home, they were a family, they were together. Eliot could feel himself getting a little embarrassingly emotional about it, just watching Quentin walk over. When Quentin finally met his gaze, his face broke out in a bright smile, the crows-feet by his eyes getting more pronounced._

_“Jesus, Eliot, have you been sleeping all day?” Quentin said, in a tone that was entirely too affectionate to be genuinely scolding._

_Eliot propped himself up on his elbows. “I was just waiting for you, dear,” he replied._

_Quentin rolled his eyes. “Can’t work on the mosaic without me anymore?”_

_Eliot smiled. “Why would I want to?”_

Eliot shook his head, confused and disoriented. That was not a speculative daydream. He’d had those, before, as he wondered about that other life that—

“Hey—” Quentin’s hand was on his shoulder. “Hey, are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Memories, I think,” Eliot murmured. “But they’re not mine.”

Quentin’s hand twitched away. “Oh—I, uh—”

Eliot glanced at him. “No, it’s—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that—that the spell would _last_ like this, I—”

“Q. Q, take it easy,” Eliot said soothingly, hearing the way Quentin’s tone was strained.

Quentin clamped his mouth shut, giving Eliot a pained look.

“They’re not your memories, either,” Eliot said.

Quentin furrowed his brow, the stress turning to bewilderment.

“Um,” he said.

Eliot shrugged one shoulder. His gaze flickered away from Quentin, sticking to the opposite wall instead. He felt his face heating a little. He didn’t really want to talk about—or admit—or discuss—

Well. Okay, so here was the thing. Eliot loved Quentin. And he knew that Quentin _knew_ that. They loved each other; Eliot didn’t need to _say_ it for that to be true, and he didn’t need to say it for it to be _known._ And he was getting more comfortable with that. Someday, he’d be able to say it out loud, and the world wouldn’t end.

But these things couldn’t happen all at once, and… it was an adjustment, that was all.

And that memory, from that timeline that Quentin had told him about, it was a little much to put into words. Such a simple memory, such a simple moment, but the feelings were so big and permanent.

Eliot was in love with Quentin—if he _really_ made himself think about it, he could manage to make himself admit that he knew it was true, that he would feel this way forever. This was a forever type feeling. Quentin was _it_ for him.

Seeing any sincere evidence of that was still overwhelming in a way that made Eliot’s heart twist.

“It was the mosaic,” Eliot said softly. “Years in, I think. But it was _my_ perspective, not yours.”

“Well, that doesn’t—” Quentin muttered, frowning fully now. His hands twitched. “Okay, that doesn’t make any sense. You never—”

“I know.”

“So how—”

“I don’t know, Q.”

Quentin cast a glance around at the books that were scattered all over the living room.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Let’s put the time magic research on hold. And I’ll call Kady and Alice to see if there are any books in the Cottage about memory magic.”

While Quentin headed to Brakebills, Eliot ended up meandering around his apartment, sort of aimlessly trying to figure out where everything was. He’d spent a not-insignificant amount of time there, but to be honest, he hadn’t been focusing much on the _place._

After all, Quentin was always there. And it turned out Quentin could really monopolize Eliot’s attention pretty easily, without even trying.

God, it was a little sickening how much Eliot loved him, actually.

He was looking through the cupboards in Quentin’s kitchen, sort of just trying to memorize where the mugs were so that he could fulfill his embarrassing daydream of bringing Quentin coffee in bed, when it happened again.

A sharp pain. And a memory.

But this one made less sense.

_Eliot was sulking by the door, his arms crossed over his chest. They were in Quentin’s bedroom in the Physical Cottage, and Quentin was sort of pacing around the room, with an agitated energy. He wouldn’t look Eliot in the eye, which stung far more than Eliot wanted to admit._

_“Christ, Q,” Eliot said, forcing a snide tone over his hurt. “You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet. Settle down.”_

_Quentin stopped moving abruptly, but only to shoot Eliot a fleeting glare and cross his arms over his chest, too. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” Quentin muttered._

_Eliot let out a short laugh, no humor in it. “Q, baby, I don’t know what you think this is,” he said breezily. “But I am just trying to get you to stop being an insufferable child about this.”_

_“You know what, Eliot, I’m getting really fucking sick of you pretending like it didn’t mean anything to you,” Quentin snapped. He turned sharply, glaring. Finally meeting Eliot’s gaze with full force. Eliot instantly regretted wanting Quentin to look him in the eyes. “And don’t—don’t call me baby. Fuck you, a little bit, actually.”_

_Eliot smiled tightly. “Some of us are capable of casual hookups, Quentin. I was unaware that you weren’t. My sincerest apologies.”_

_He was being a little cruel and he knew it, but this was frankly too fucking much. They’d lived together a month before they’d slept together, and Eliot didn’t mean for things to get so tangled and strange, but they had, and he didn’t know what to do anymore._

_“You’re such a dick, El,” Quentin muttered, pulling his arms around himself tighter and letting his hair fall into his eyes._

_It agitated Eliot more than anything that Quentin could wear his hurt so openly. It wasn’t like Eliot was fine—he really fucking wasn’t fine, actually, but he had to act like he was. Meanwhile, Quentin was just so open with his feelings that Eliot wanted to scream._

_It was one hookup. It shouldn’t have been such a big deal._

_Except that of course it was a big deal, because it was Quentin, and Eliot should’ve known better than to sleep with someone he liked._

_And maybe he shouldn’t have flirted with Penny at the party the next day, and maybe he really shouldn’t have made out with that Nature student in the hall where of course Quentin was going to see it, and maybe he really,_ really _shouldn’t have gotten snippy when Quentin hooked up with the Psychic girl, but—_

_God, Eliot wished none of this had ever happened. He and Quentin could’ve just been friends, and he could’ve pined a little and gotten over it eventually, but he just had to kiss him. He hadn’t even expected Quentin to kiss back, let alone kiss back and drag him up the stairs and…_

_“We still have to live together,” Eliot said, forcing his voice to sound diplomatic. “It would be easier if you would just let this whole thing go. It really shouldn’t be a big deal.”_

_Quentin’s mouth twisted a little, and Eliot thought about how soft his lips had been._

_“Fine,” Quentin said, an edge in his tone. “Get out of my room.”_

_Eliot raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be honest, that doesn’t sound like you’re letting anything go,” he said._

_Quentin sighed, half laughed, rolled his eyes. Ran an agitated hand through his hair. God, he was always moving so much. So tightly wound. Eliot should’ve known better._

_“I’ll work on it,” Quentin said dryly._

_Good enough, Eliot supposed. Maybe they could get to a place where they were just pretending like nothing had ever happened. Wouldn’t that be nice?_

Eliot was bracing himself against the counter, his knuckles white, when the vision ended.

Okay. Okay, so that was _wholly_ unfamiliar. That was certainly not the mosaic. It wasn’t Timeline 9 either. Nor was it Timeline 40.

Eliot hoped Quentin could find a _lot_ of books on memory magic.


End file.
